1933
by Lady Amarra
Summary: The story of a killer and a piano player in the dark corners of NY’s streets. MafiaKillerAU MCshep BETAED! Complete
1. Chapter 1

**Paring**: Rodney/John

**Warnings**: slash, murder, mentioning of sexual activity NOTHING GRAPHIC

**Disclaimer**: Nothing mine.

**Rating**: PG-13

**Note**: the Prohibition ended 1933, so this story plays in 1933, well, most of it. Thanks to Fedge for the beta, and thanks to all of you out there for the comments. Feedback is love and makes me write faster!

**Summary**: The story of a killer and a piano player in the dark corners of NY's streets.

**1933**

o

The drink is bitter, burning down the inside of his throat like liquid fire right down into the hole in his soul, hard and bitter; yeah, that fits the weather and his mood. He swallows hard and gulps down the entire glass of whiskey before setting it back on the counter. He always drinks whiskey; rum makes him dizzy and beer, well, just isn't enough. Whiskey however, yeah - whiskey is the welcoming fire in a cold night.

He can feel the burning down in his stomach, curling and uncurling like something living that makes him feel alive - something precious, which generally he doesn't have so much with the living. Oh, it has irony of sorts, whiskey is irony in pure liquid form; hard and biting and fine and smooth at the same time, when delivered the right way.

He chuckles and chokes; when was the last time someone called him smooth? When was the last time he laughed? Oh, hey, nobody ever called him smooth, that's not among the adjectives that could describe him, no, really not - laughing at the thought, ah no. Cold, hard and black, like polished marble in the sun, the black marble that grows on the graveyards like thorns on red rose bushes, the kind of thorns he could cut his flesh on and bleed to death.

The choking doesn't end there.

The bartender gives him the once over from his position. John can see it from the corner of his eye, he's confused, open, readable as a book.

"Are you alright son?"

He puts the cloth he's polishing the glasses with over his shoulder and walks over to John's end of the counter, taking the empty glass out of his reach.

"Yeah…" John lies, but he is good at that - always has been, ever since day one. "Give me another one."

"I don't think that's wise, son."

"It's really not your place to decide that," John drawls, but there is ice in his voice.

Normally people tend to shrink back and turn away when John is drunk. He is all laid back and calm, perfect control but sometimes he snaps, sometimes there is that moment people shouldn't be around him, sometimes he behaves the way he feels.

"Aye…" The man is taken by John's show for about ten seconds, looking him over from head to toe, but the walls crumble. "It's probably not."

He stares at John for a couple more seconds then there is a glass and he pours from the bottle of golden liquid, another shot, that's what John needs.

"Thanks…"

The man nods slowly and turns back to his glasses, never leaving John out of his sight. He can't take the blue gaze anymore and turns around, away from the bar and the counter, to the music.

It's too soft for this hour, just flowing along in the background, and the voice of the woman is as smooth as the whiskey is supposed to be but never really is. She's black and a beauty - and that is surprising, given the social strictures. He frowns, that she is even allowed to sing in the bar, but then everyone looks dark at night, and it's always dark in this kind of bar.

He closes his eyes and his mind floats with the lazy song, floats and wishes to fly, like a bird or a pilot. The memory is hard and cold, as hard and cold as he is supposed to be, and really isn't. Lost chances mock him in the shadows on the walls of his mind, and he has built a lot of walls, to contain all kinds of things.

He can smell the blood, warm and sticky on his skin, still fights with the urge to wipe his shoes clean where he has stepped through the blood of tonight's job. He'd cleaned his gun three times before he stored her away - she is dirty, as dirty as he feels.

He knows the names of his jobs. He can name every single one of them, every single one; from Sumner… to Gaul, every single one.

He can see their faces.

He opens his eyes again and they end up on the man at the piano. He's sweating and flushed, his eyes closed and his hands flying over the keys; it's perfection in every single note that drifts over him and John is sure the black woman would only sound half as good if the man didn't play along.

Then he stares, just stares for the entire song, for every word about a sad, sad love that never was and never should be. It's almost better than the whiskey, better than the heat of a smooth kill or a willing woman – not that he has so many truly willing that he doesn't have to pay for.

The song ends and the people groan and cheer, some yelling obscenities at the woman - she's still an unreachable beauty full of dignity, wrapped in a dream of dark blue silk and pearls. She isn't hit by any of the bad words or the curses, just raises her head and walks behind the curtain, dignity and grace.

The man on the piano is flustered and sweaty, eyes wide open as she leaves and God, those eyes, John thinks. It's probably the whiskey and the rainy night, the kill. He watches silently how the man gets up, wipes his hands on the black pants he wears and stalks over to the counter, how he ignores the drunk men and the words, the mutters.

"I hate these bastards…"

The barkeeper comes around and sets a glass with clear liquid down in front of the man, smiling patiently. "Aye," he says and leans on the counter. "I know, Rodney."

"She's a human like everyone else, why do those color fixated, narrow minded bastards not just see her as that?" He's angry and flustered, emptying the glass. "They're stupid, just idiots, all of them!"

"I wouldn't say that so loud, if I were you," Sheppard drawls in amusement.

John is surprised by his own words. It's his usual drawl, a smile accompanying it, and it seems like the first time the innocent-and-uninvolved act works out since the conflict with his boss last year.

"I speak as loud as I want…"

"Rodney…" The barkeeper rolls his eyes.

"What? Want to start calling Teyla names now as well? Huh, Carson? Does your wife know about that? Does Laura know what you want to call her friend?"

"Rodney…!"

"Don't Rodney me. I have the right to say what I want as everyone else does, including Teyla! Everyone should be treated alike…"

The barkeeper, Carson, goes all wide eyed and Rodney seems to talk mainly with his hands and arms, gesturing as though playing his words on an invisible piano. John is amused, the guy is funny; has a death wish, but still seems funny. He can't help but chuckle and empties his glass finally.

"Oh and this is funny why exactly?"

"Oh nothing…" John waves his hand slightly, snickering.

"Then shut up, will you?!"

"Rodney…" Carson warns, or begs, impossible to tell.

John turns away and watches his empty glass. Rodney is complaining still. Loudly and in great detail, it makes him smile even more broadly. Minutes pass like this, then Rodney leaves, still muttering, all the way out of the doors and up the stairs.

There is movement at the corner of John's eye, it's a band of three or four bully men that make to follow the piano player. John can read them as he could read Carson. People are generally far too open with their eyes and gestures. He grabs what money he finds in his pockets and puts it on the counter, grabs his hat and pulls his coat collar up – because that's just like a uniform – and follows the four men outside.

There is not much choice of paths to follow in the pouring rain and he has a pretty good feeling where the others went.

He walks after the guys, hands in his pockets and doesn't know exactly why he cares. He walks easily past his car, the dark green Ford, and further down the street in the rain, watching how the four reach Rodney and drag him aside into a dark alley.

He doesn't know why he cares, but decides it's not important.

"Okay, hey, look, can't we talk about this? I bruise easily…"

"Heh, bruise easily, sure, that's why you get it on with the smooth nigger whore, don't you?"

One of the guys chuckles and John hears Rodney whine.

"Hey…"

Their heads fly around, shadowed by darkness and rain.

"Piss off…!" One growls.

"Yeah, fuck off!"

Rodney's blue eyes are like flashlights in the half dark, wild and afraid. It's strangely inviting in some perverted kind of way.

"Sorry, can't…" John shrugs, hands still in his pockets.

They stare, for a fraction of a moment, then the first one attacks; he's all muscles and speed but really doesn't use it, so he's down with a couple of painfully broken ribs within a heartbeat. The other guy earns himself a couple of bruises next, and it's just John's years in the Family that let him do this so easily.

They lie on the ground and gasp, groaning in pain.

"I told you," he sighs.

The other two run for their lives and leave Rodney sitting in the dirt of the alley.

"Wow, you…"

John shrugs.

"You…"

"Yeah, I…" John answers and offers a hand.

"You saved me…"

John pulls Rodney to his feet and steps back, adjusting his hat. "Be more careful next time."

Rodney looks after him as John leaves him there in the alley in the rain.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Sorry that it took so long, I though when I update, I'll update with the beated version

o

It's Friday as John appears in the bar again. It doesn't rain but it's cold outside and he's just killed a guy who couldn't pay his rent. His boss ordered, John followed.

John drinks three glasses of whiskey, then pays and leaves a big tip for the barkeeper.

"It's on the house tonight son," Carson says, and smiles.

"I want to pay."

He pushes the money back across the counter, takes his hat and walks out. He has his car a bit further down the street, parked out of sight of the main thoroughfare. It had been a tight one this time, a neighbour had called the cops and Grodin had put up a struggle.

He stares at the sky while walking and remembers his mom and the stars, the stories of far away kingdoms and lost cities.

"Hey! Hey! You!"

He turns around and the piano player runs down the street behind him. His hair is all messed up and he wears an apron. Fine, he doesn't just make music, John ponders.

"Hello…" John drawls.

"Yeah, yeah hello," Rodney repeats. "You… I…" He gestures and points. "Look, I just, I wanted to say… wanted to say thank you."

"Thank you?"

"Yeah, I'm not good at this… but…you helped me, and I suppose I have to say something…"

His hands fly and his eyes sparkle from the streetlights. John is drawn to those eyes like a moth to the light. He bites back the feeling he can't feel, the feeling he isn't allowed and doesn't want, because it always comes with pain.

"No need to thank me…"

He just turns around and walks on, his car already in sight.

"Hey, wait…" Rodney calls and jogs after him. "You know I have better things to do than run behind you, would you just stop for a moment there? Hey!"

John stops, but doesn't want to turn around.

"You could at least turn around when I'm talking to you!" Rodney snaps and pulls John around by his arm.

He can snarl back. "What do you want?!"

"Uh…"

He doesn't know how Rodney ended up so close, so near he can smell the kitchen and the sweat, water and alcohol, different from blood and death. It's idiotic to stand here with a man he barely knows and… He stops thinking and their lips touch.

The kiss is short and warm, then John pushes the other man back, hard. He turns and runs, well, not runs but leaves, gets into his car and drives off.

o

Two weeks. It takes two weeks and a dead real estate agent before he even sets foot in that part of the city again, let alone visits the bar. It's a dark night so close to freezing that the tips of his ears pulse painfully as he enters the smoky room.

The beauty is on stage again and sings of beautiful dreams, lost loves. She seems to have something with all the sad songs, but the sadness comes with the music; she's just tagging along.

He walks over to the bar and watches.

Rodney's hands fly over the instrument and his eyes stay closed; he's feeling the music, living it, making it come alive. John sighs and orders a glass of whiskey, but the burn isn't enough this time.

It's not nearly enough.

Everest, the real estate agent, had a wife and three kids, a white fence and a dog. Now he has a hole in his chest and ashes. He doesn't like his job on nights like this.

The devil has his soul.

Sometimes he wants the cops to take him down, wants Caldwell to get him and bring him to prison – the Family wouldn't even let him survive the trial.

He orders his second glass and wonders if Lorne would be his killer, smooth and with a smile.

Yes, probably Lorne.

He gets up and leaves before the music ends, he can't take it.

o

It's a classic the next time. Not even he knows how many he had hit; a small warning for the other families not to mess with his branch of the big tree.

"Have you heard about the Pizzeria this afternoon?" One of the guys in the bar mutters to the other, as John sits not far away and empties his first glass.

"Yeah, 16 dead and 4 wounded…"

John closes his eyes and sets the glass down. It didn't feel like he had hit more than maybe six; Lorne probably had a good score this time. God, John sighed, he was getting old.

"I heard they didn't pay their debts…" Nope, they didn't, not in time anyway.

As he opens his eyes the next glass stands there.

"Here son…" Carson smiles, a knowing smile, he can probably read eyes too. John frowns back, but takes the glass. The barkeeper knows him by now, knows what he wants after... Perhaps even what he is.

Rodney stomps out of the kitchen with a tray of glasses as John grabs the whiskey. They stare at each other for a couple of moments, endless blue staring back at him. John decides to leave, just leave and get the hell out of there this time, gets up and just goes away.

He hurries down the street and curses the fact that he has left his car even further away this time, parked in the yard of one of the warehouses.

"What the hell is it with you and the running?!" Rodney is faster this time, and louder too.

"You started it," he snaps, and glares.

"Me?" Rodney blinks. "You run every time, I just have to follow, and don't dare to drive off like the last time…"

"Well, I will try to fight the urge…" One urge at least, John thinks.

"Ha, ha… Funny."

"Yeah, well, I am." He glares and Rodney glares back. Damn the eyes, damn the man.

The kiss comes as fast as the last one, but this time it's open and messy. Whiskey and a hint of coffee mixing, tongues dancing - John can't remember the last time he had this.

His mind wants to ask him why he is kissing a man he barely knows, again; wants to know why exactly he's so keen on doing this to Rodney, and he decides he doesn't know or care for that matter.

"What the..?" Eventually they part and he pants, it's cold enough by now to see thick clouds of warm air coming from his mouth, mixing with Rodney's breath – his lips are wet and slightly swollen.

"Yeah…" What the hell, he probably dies tomorrow.

He is the one moving forward and capturing Rodney's lips this time, he's searching for the coffee and fixing Rodney's head with his hands, holding him in place.

"Yeah," he mumbles, panting. "Yeah…"

They reach his car, thank God parked in a lonely place – he's glad now – and John pushes Rodney onto the backseat. It's surprisingly big and the cream coloured leather is soft, or John just thinks it is, because he has Rodney above him and that would make even a gravel road bearable for his back.

"Clothes…" Rodney pants, touching everywhere, fumbling for his shirt, for his belt and everything all at once. "Clothes…"

"Wait…"

He's better at undoing his belt, less frantic and Rodney kisses him again as he's finally free, grabs directly for the hard dick and pulls him out into the chilly air.

Rodney can talk music with his hands and, oh God, with his mouth. "Oh God…"

It goes too fast compared to John's last time, but he doesn't care and gives as he takes.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

o

John can see his father in his dreams; sitting in the tub on that afternoon twenty years ago, his cigar floating in the red water and his mother dead on the kitchen floor. Uncle Acastus had taken him in like a son and John simply returns the hospitality with his work.

He tells himself that.

Rodney is the other side, John's only proof, the only thing that makes him exist.

It's spring again and the sky is as bright as Rodney's eyes on the nights John's with him. It's beautiful and frightening at the same time, he doesn't ask questions about it, just doesn't.

He does his job again and again, he still knows the name of every single one, but with Rodney he can pretend to forget.

"Who's Sumner..?"

Rodney is in bed beside him - it's a more than dirty little hotel room, but they don't ask questions here, so they don't tell – and he wants to talk, he tends to do that afterwards.

"Nobody…" John buries his eyes under his arm, hoping that's it.

"You talk about him when you sleep…"

"He killed my parents."

John has no clue why he tells Rodney, why he doesn't lie. Well, too late now.

"Oh."

Yeah, oh. John groans inwardly, he doesn't want to talk and, thank God for Rodney, he doesn't want to either and snuggles up to his lover once more.

o

It's one of the worst jobs ever and John needs three weeks and the surgery skills of a doubtfully skilled pathologist working for the Family. His side hurts like hell and he barely survived the bullet but is back in the bar on the first night he can walk again.

Caldwell is there too.

He sits at the bar and watches Rodney play. It's a faster piece this time; John can feel the rhythm in his wounds as he sits down in a darker corner of the bar. Teyla isn't there tonight either.

Caldwell talks with Carson and finally with Rodney.

Rodney doesn't believe one word, then Caldwell shows him pictures and John can see how the blue eyes dim.

o

It's summer again and John has not seen Rodney for almost two months, not even visits to the bar. Kolya has told him he should keep it down, not do any jobs for a while and relax, Caldwell is too close – and John really doesn't need the Scar Face to remind him of that fact, thank you very much.

"I gave you the ability to kill the murderer of your parents, I gave you the skills for your revenge and you owe me for it," he always says and John listens.

John kills a diplomat and his wife as the trees turn to gold again - he's the best one, nobody can do it better - and adds Weir to his list.

He hopes that someone will add Sheppard to their list soon.

He's too tired for all of it.

o

Rodney stands in front of his door, pretty much one year after their first time. His blue eyes look tired and he's visibly fighting with his fears as he stands there. John can see him through the spyhole in the door, his gun ready - he has a lot of people against him nowadays.

"How the hell have you found me?!" He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, wants to tell Rodney how unbelievably stupid it is to seek him out, especially since he never told him where to be found. Hell, the whole thing about being a killer for the Family is not to be found!

"Rodney?"

"Brilliant observation, John." Rodney looks around, fidgeting. "Will you let me in?"

"No."

"It would really be better if you did…" He fidgets again and John steps to the side and lets him in, well, not as if he has much of a choice.

"I know who you are and what you do," Rodney tells him, standing in the middle of John's living room and John sits down on his couch, laying his gun carefully on the table before him. Rodney follows John with his eyes and snaps his mouth shut fast.

"I doubt that Rodney…"

"Caldwell, you know, from the police, he showed me pictures and it all makes sense now…" Rodney gestures, a bit slower than normal. "You came to the bar every time you…"

John leans back in his couch, head tilted back and staring at the ceiling. Chaya flashes before his eyes, sweet smile and bloody hands, dead on the sidewalk. She had jumped as it had gotten out about him, about the Family, of her own free will or not.

"Leave Rodney… and never come back," he drawls.

"No."

"You shouldn't have come here, how did you get my address anyway?"

"Friends," Rodney snaps and raises his chin, arms crossed over his chest. "You don't work in a bar without making friends who know people that know things…"

"I get it," John holds up one hand to stop Rodney. "And now what?"

"I sort of thought, well, you don't do this because you like it." Rodney paces up and down now, shaky. "I think I know you that much…"

"You don't know me at all."

"Oh, I do." Rodney stops pacing and points a finger at John. "You said Sumner killed your parents and than Caldwell came and I just did the math. "

"You should just go back to your life Rodney…"

"And let you suffer in peace? Ah, no. You're not a killer."

"How do you think I earn my money?"

Rodney glares and it's probably pointless to argue now.

"Fuck off!" John gets up and growls. "Just fuck off…"

John stomps to the door. Throwing Rodney out is the only way to save him. John doesn't care about himself, but if Kolya were to know about this, about Rodney and Caldwell, then… He doesn't want to add McKay to Lorne's list.

"Look… My sister's husband Caleb, he works for a big firm which exports all kinds of things. He can get us on a ship to Sweden, he has relatives in Umea..."

John blinks and blinks again. "Sweden?"

"Yeah…" Rodney nods. "We would have to work for our living, but you know, not your kind of work…"

"Sweden?" John repeats. The last thing he had ever counted on was going to Sweden – of all places.

"Sweden…"

Rodney nods and grins broadly, eyes sparkling, and John groans. He drags his hands through his spiky black hair; this is insane, totally insane. Here he is, with Rodney pacing up and down in his badly lit living room, babbling about Sweden and escape, and John is sure that McKay hasn't even a clue with whom he would get himself in trouble if they even thought about it.

"Look Rodney, we can't go to Sweden…"

"Oh we can, the ship goes tomorrow evening…"

You don't understand, he wants to yell, but when he thinks about it, Rodney must have looked under so many stones to find the one John is hiding under, that Kolya probably already knows about him. It's pointless now; Sweden then.

Sweden, at least for Rodney.

o

Normally the end of a romance story, in books and movies at least, is a happy one. John knows he won't get that, he just knows. He had a few lucky days, beautiful hours in his existence, and that's more than he could have expected… A few nice months, yeah.

He parks his car at the warehouse not far from the piers. It's a matter of a few meters to reach Rodney now, to freedom.

"Hey John…"

He'd never really counted on making it to the ship.

"Lorne…" He sighs and doesn't even turn around to the source of the voice. He hoped to be the name on a list someday, just so he no longer had to add names to his own.

"The Boss heard you wanted to leave…" Lorne is leaning against the wall of the warehouse, the gun barely hidden below his long black coat. "And he isn't very happy about it."

"I thought so," Sheppard drawls and looks down. He can almost see the ship, Rodney nervously pacing up and down at the gangway.

"You know, I never thought I would be the one to get you," Lorne says and John can see why, knows what kind of boost this must be for Lorne. He thinks well of him in the end.

The sun goes down beyond the horizon, the ship will probably leave soon. John won't be there, and anyway, Sweden was a stupid place to hide. Whoever heard of someone escaping to Sweden? Mexico, yes, but not a place where it would be dark half the year.

Destiny is a sarcastic bitch, really.

He never feels the bullet pierce his heart but knows when it stops beating.

o

He rests somewhere soft and piano music is drifting over him again, soft and sad. He feels no pain except for a slight stabbing, poking him in the ribs again and again. Not a bullet.

"Rodney, I would leave him alone, Colonel Sheppard seems to be very tired…" Someone is laughing softly, warm and soothing.

"Yeah, and that's why he falls asleep in my lap? Really Colonel, I know the movie wasn't that great but my legs are cramping already and your head is goddamn heavy…" And the something pokes into his ribs again, pushes at his shoulder. "Which is surprising given my theory that there's not much more to you than your ridiculously spiky hair and hot air."

"R'ney?" John opens his eyes slowly, looking up into blue ones.

"Yes, exactly, now up with you Colonel I-am-not-sleeping…" Rodney snaps and pushes, John loses his balance and falls face first off the couch, lying there for long seconds with his eyes staring at the last scenes of the movie they watched together.

Team night, he remembers, team night. "Ouch…"

He groans and pushes himself up, rubbing his brow. He's sitting in the middle of his team, the piano music drifting from the beamer before them. Road to Perdition, he remembers, a Tom Hanks movie about gangsters in the 1930s – Ronon's choice.

No bar, no killing, no Sweden... a dream. God, a dream.

Rodney is sprawled all over the sofa now, taking up too much space, no wonder he ended up sleeping all over him. He can't help but stare, which doesn't go unnoticed by the others.

"I think it is time to leave now," Teyla says finally and he can barely turn his head as she stands up. "Sleep well Colonel Sheppard…"

Ronon leaves as well, only Rodney stays a bit longer.

"Good night guys…" John waves tiredly and pulls himself up. Rodney is ready to leave too, with most of the equipment under his arm.

"So, I'm going now Colonel Sleepy; or do you need me to tuck you in?" Rodney snaps before marching over to the door.

John wishes he could say yes.

"I think not…" John yawns but smiles, a bit artificial but anyway... He walks over to the door himself. "Good night Rodney…"

Rodney mumbles his goodbyes and leaves, then the door closes and John asks himself – remembering the few good moments from his dream – whether it had tried to tell him something.

The end.


End file.
